Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

returned, and, since she was always unknowingly sharing her screen with me, I saw the shit she scrolled through for hours.

There were advantages to being a tech nerd.

“For how long?” she asked, but there was no venom. No fear. Nothing beyond mild confusion that bordered on apathetic.

“Since the first day at the center.”

“All those times I felt…” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Why?”

Because I’m obsessed.

“Because I like to,” I said.

For the first time since finding me in her home, she finally looked outraged. Shocked, not that I was watching her but that I wanted to. Her tone cut deeper than her blades ever could as she repeated, “Why?”

Because you’re beautifully broken.

I didn’t share that, either.

“Aria or Derrick or Dr. Linda definitely sent you.” She started to laugh. “I give them points for trying something new, but this is too much. You’re—” Her words cut off abruptly as she studied me before finally whispering, “Wait. You’re not kidding.”

“No.”

“Aria didn’t send you.”

“No.”

“I’ll… I’ll scream.” There was no heat to her threat. More like she was saying what she thought was required.

“I hope you do.”

Moving closer, I stopped when my body nearly touched hers. “Tell me to get out. Tell me this isn’t what you want, and I’ll go.”

I would, too. I’d climb through the window I’d left open, getting out before anyone saw me.

But I’d come back. Not to hurt her. But because I was already too damn obsessed to walk away for good.

Doubt filled her voice. “And leave a breathing witness who can identify you?”

“Even if you told them, who’d believe you, Briar?”

I hadn’t meant it as an insult, but her slumped shoulders and defeated expression said the truth hurt.

I never felt guilt for what I did. My targets deserved to die. They were evil. Abusers. Cheats. The worst kind of fucking garbage. They thought their power could buy them what they wanted, and they didn’t give a shit about the destruction they left behind. I did the world a favor each time I got rid of one.

But Briar was different.

Death wasn’t her punishment. It was her reward.

My gift to her.

Or it was supposed to be.

But I’d watched her too long. Too closely.

I’d allowed myself to grow attached.

Obsessed.

It made me a selfish prick, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I’d still give her something, though. Because with the way she was unraveling, I knew if I didn’t, she would do something that couldn’t be undone.

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, I trailed my fingertips down her jaw to grip her chin and tilt it up. I choose my vague words carefully. “I’m offering you help. No guilt. No strings attached. Just help.”

She closed her eyes, not moving away from my touch. I wasn’t even sure she was aware of it. After a long moment, she opened them again.

And that’s when I saw it. Mixed within the shock and skepticism.

Longing. Relief.

She wanted the permanent peace she thought I was offering.

“Into the bathroom,” I ordered, watching for hesitation or indecision.

There was none as she turned and walked in, not glancing back to see if I followed.

“Take off your pants.” My voice was gruff with adrenaline and regret and anticipation.

And need.

Turning to face me, she finally paused. “Why?”

I ran the closed blade lightly across the front of her leg, ending at her inner thigh. My cock jerked as I lied, “Access to your artery.”

“That’ll just look like I…”

“Accidentally. And you won’t have to be the one to do it.”

Biting her bottom lip, she shoved her jeans down and kicked them to the side. It was as graceless and hurried as usual, but seeing it in person had precum beading, making my boxers stick.

“Climb into the tub.” Once she did, I kneeled next to it. “Spread your legs for me, Briar.”

She let them fall open, her eyes locked on me and not the knife I was inching closer. When I pressed it against the inside of her thigh, lining it up with one of her existing pretty scars, her hand shot out to grip my wrist.

I thought she’d changed her mind. That she was telling me to stop. I hoped like fuck she was.

“Wait.” She scrambled out of the tub and hurried from the room.

Thank fuck.

Before my relief could fully form, she was back. She flicked her wrist to open it before handing me the straight edged razor. “This one.”

She climbed back into the tub and positioned her legs just so. When I lined the new blade up, her hand stilled mine again. “Have you done this before?”

I was already taking a risk just by being there, even though no one would believe the woman with a history of mental illness over the philanthropist billionaire. But telling her the truth would increase my risk because I’d be acknowledging there were breadcrumbs that could be found and followed—no matter how improbably.

I did it anyway. “Yes.”

There was no fear in her eyes. No disgust. No horror.

Instead, her big, blue eyes were full of awe and wonder. “You’re an angel of mercy.”

I opened my mouth to correct her, but I couldn’t. I was selfish as fuck and wanted to memorize the way she looked at me. If things went well, if what I was willing to give her was enough, I’d do everything in my damn power to make sure she always looked at me like that.

Besides, her label for me wasn’t an outright lie. To the victims of the men I killed, I probably was an angel of mercy. I did what they couldn’t, giving them peace.

After a long moment, she released my wrist. Leaning back, it was the most relaxed I’d seen her—especially in the previous week.

Moving slow—both to give her time to change her mind and so I could savor it—I ran the sharp blade along her old scar. Just enough to pierce her skin.

Enough that droplets of blood danced down her soft skin.

I wished like hell I wasn’t wearing the damn gloves. That I could feel her. Her